


Love's Such an Old-Fashioned Word

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Series: this could be heaven for everyone [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers Compound, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Romantic Comedy, Schmoop, Tony POV, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 11:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17344631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: Steve gets the very brilliant idea that he and Tony should date, but Tony needs some convincing.





	Love's Such an Old-Fashioned Word

“How’s the coffee?” Tony asks.

“Burnt,” Steve says, just before downing the rest of the mug’s contents in two massive Adam’s apple-bobbing gulps. He even smacks his lips afterward, then turns to the remains of his burger with the intensity of a mission that needs settling. “We’ll probably need to order another round.”

Tony considers his own plate. He’s finished the fries, but the burger has a little too much personality. He pushes it across the table. “Work on that first.”

There are better choices for a late-night meal binge than this hole-in-the-wall they’ve found themselves in, but Tony hadn’t been in the mood to browse and let FRIDAY direct them to the first available place from their touchdown point. The deliciousness of a post-mission meal is in direct proportion to how successful said mission was, so Tony’s kinda picky this morning. That said, he’s getting enough proxy satisfaction from watching Steve’s always-predictable inhaling of whatever is put in front of him.

“Someone’s gonna poison you one of these days,” Tony says.

“You?”

“No, _you_.”

“I meant,” Steve says, in between mighty super-soldier chomps that are eerily efficient, “are you the one who’s going to be poisoning me?”

“Oh.” Tony thinks. “I guess I could do that for science, but if I was going to start inflicting bodily harm on you I’d probably be more creative about it than just… poisoning.”

“Poisoning _would_ require creativity,” Steve says. “You’ll have to take the serum into account, at the very least.”

“I can beat the serum.”

Steve chortles, thought Tony’s unsure if it’s directed at Tony’s statement, or at Tony’s face when Steve swallows a pickle whole. “You can beat the serum,” Steve echoes.

“Not right _now_ ,” Tony admits. “But sure, yeah, I could beat the serum if I wanted. Why are you putting the idea in my head?”

“I didn’t. You brought it up.”

“No, I just said that someone _–_ a general someone who exists somewhere in the world – will poison you one of these days if you keep stuffing your face like that.”

“But how can they when they’d have to beat the serum first, which is something that a genius such as yourself can’t do?”

“I can beat the serum! I can—” Tony starts when their waitress appears at their table, a plate of maybe-fresh fries in her hands. Tony beams up at her, and is delighted that her unimpressed scowl does not let up for a millisecond. “Thank you so much.”

Steve’s smile is more earnest than Tony’s, but the waitress harrumphs and bustles off.

It’s not like they’re incognito, either – Steve’s still in uniform sans the helmet, and Tony’s suit is parked outside next to Steve’s bike just a handful of feet from the front door. The waitress had looked slightly peeved about that, as though the suit was going to cost them customers, but it’s three in the morning and she’s going to get a really large tip, so it’ll all work out.

“Don’t poison me, Tony,” Steve says.

“I could.”

“But don’t.”

“But I _can_. Just admit that I can.”

“I can sabotage your suit if I wanted, but you don’t see me going around shouting that from the rooftops.”

“That doesn’t mean shit,” Tony says. “Sam can sabotage my suits. It’s not a skill of note.”

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“Unlike you, Sam doesn’t hold ridiculous grudges over his co-workers. Besides, he already knows I’m a dick.”

Steve hums an ambivalent note that could be agreement, or distress that the ketchup bottle is empty. He half-stands up, reaching over to the table behind them to purloin its bottle and slather both his plate and Tony’s with the sauce. “What was I saying?”

“I’m a dick,” Tony says.

“No, that’s what you were saying.”

“You’re supposed to admit that I can poison you.”

“But I already did.” Steve nudges Tony’s plate closer to Tony’s fingers, and nods when Tony partakes of the drowned fries. “You said that someone would poison me someday, and I asked if that’d be you.”

“That’s not agreeing that I _can_ poison you.”

“Why would you even want to poison me? Aside from science.”

“To figure out your limitations,” Tony says.

“Actually,” Steve says thoughtfully, “now that you’ve mentioned it, it’s really easy to sabotage your suits. I already have access to your workshop. And FRIDAY likes me.”

“FRIDAY doesn’t like you.”

“ _May I chime in, sir?_ ” FRIDAY chirps in Tony’s ear.

“No,” Tony says.

“ _Not even if the captain has a call coming in from headquarters?”_

“Ah,” Tony says. “Steve, check your phone.”

“What? Oh.” Steve pops his phone out of his sleeve, an elegant flick of the wrist that is far smoother than it has any right to be. The phone’s still in mission mode when Steve sets it on the table, and a swipe of his thumb has said phone’s screen lighting up to Sam’s face. “Sam?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Sam says, speakers on. “ _Mission cleared?_ ”

“Yep,” Steve says. “Me and Tony are just getting fueled up. Anything going on?”

“ _Vision got back okay with Wanda, but he’s still feeling glitchy after the storm scare, so he’s hoping if you could spare Tony as soon as you can._ ”

Tony leans over the phone. “Tell him we’ll be back soon.”

“ _Yeah, yeah. Sorry to cut the date short._ ”

“It’s fine,” Steve says. “Tony was just telling me how he’d poison me if he could.”

“I can!” Tony hisses, jabbing a finger in the air at Steve. “I _can_ poison you. We’ve established that.”

“ _Right_ ,” Sam drawls. “ _See you guys soon._ ”

While Steve hangs up and puts his phone away, Tony considers the merits of asking for a doggie bag. He’s not loving these fries but he might get peckish in a couple of hours, and it’s generally a good idea to have leftovers on standby, no matter that Steve’s the only massive stomach left hanging around now that Bruce and Thor are gone. Still, the fries already have ketchup on them, and they’re going to be disgusting in a couple of minutes, let alone hours.

“Just take them,” Steve says.

“Yeah, okay.” Tony waves at the waitress. “You can head back first, I’ll see you at the compound.”

“Sure.” Steve stands up, helmet in hand, but makes no move to actually step out of the booth. When Tony looks up, Steve’s frowning a little. “Sam called this a date,” Steve says.

“A veritable comedian.” Tony smiles as the waitress grumps over to collect their plates. “To go, please. Thank you, you’re wonderful.”

“This is kind of a date, though, isn’t it?” Steve says, once the waitress is gone.

Tony stands up and makes a show of studying the very romantic layout of a run-down, 24-hour diner in the middle of bumfuck, nowhere. “A lousy one, if so.”

“But still a date,” Steve says. “The less than ideal location is your fault, because you picked.”

“No. If this is a date, then the location is _your_ fault, because you’re the one who asked me along for this mission in the first place.”

“So, I should probably pay?” Steve straightens up. “I should pay.”

“Did you even bring your wallet?”

“I will pay for the next one,” Steve declares.

“Sure.” Tony pats at his undersuit, finding his money clip and pulling a few notes out. “You can pay for the next one, and the one after that, and the one _after that_. Since you’re putting a fair tally together and all.”

“I do like being fair as much as possible,” Steve agrees.

“If that were true, this wouldn’t be a date, because you’re my boss, and it’s unfair for bosses to date their underlings.” Tony rolls his shoulders, warming up for the flight back. “Kind of a no-no in the twenty-first century, if you weren’t aware.”

“I am not and have never been your boss.” Steve follows Tony out of the booth, and winds around him to open the door. It’s still dark outside. “You just say that because you enjoy the plausible deniability.”

“Plausible deniability of _what_?”

“Being as responsible for the team as I am.”

“Confirmed. Worst date ever.” Tony ignores Steve’s grin and steps into his suit, the joints clicking shut around him. He blinks twice, his eyes adjusting to the HUD. Steve’s digitized face appears in the middle left, still grinning. Tony says, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I’ll do my best,” Steve says. “See you at the compound?”

“You got ketchup on your chin.” Tony kicks the repulsors to life and takes off, while Steve’s muted laugh rumbles in his ears.

 

+

 

The problem with Steve is that when he gets an idea in his head, it’s damn near impossible to shake it loose. It’s almost, though not quite, something that he and Tony have in common. Tony knows they could go toe-to-toe when it comes to pure stubbornness, but Tony has the wonderful ability to get distracted and/or lose interest when something else comes along. Steve, for the most part, lacks such a trait, which is sometimes cause for great hilarity, and other times cause for turning to reinforcements (Sam, or Natasha) and letting them deal with it.

Today, Tony has no such reinforcements. It’s been a couple of days since the post-mission diner munchies, and once again there’s just him and Steve sitting elbow-to-elbow, albeit this time at a bar where both of them are nursing non-alcoholic drinks and overpriced intermission snacks.

“You’d be doing _them_ a favor,” Tony’s saying. “Otherwise you’re leaving two dozen broken hearts in your wake.”

“Only if you’re joining me,” Steve says.

Tony sighs. “I told you, I don’t—”

“Just because an actor picked a fight with you _one time,_ you’re never going backstage in a theatre ever again?” Steve is extra picturesque today, with his combed hair and button-down and tie (which he knows isn’t necessary for matinee shows but wears anyway just to spite Tony).

“It destroys the mythos.” Tony nudges Steve over with an elbow so he can grab a handful of skittles from the open pack. “I don’t like being approachable.”

“Why are you such a liar?”

“Practice,” Tony says promptly.

“I’m going to meet the cast and you’re coming with me,” Steve says. “It’s only polite.”

“Screw being polite. I don’t have to be polite to strangers on my days off.”

“I meant to _me_ ,” Steve says. “It’d be polite to me.”

“Who the hell cares about you?”

“Because I’m your date. You’ve got to be nice to me.”

“Hah. No.” Tony shoves the rest of the skittles in his mouth just as the announcement comes on that the show will be resuming soon. He brushes himself down and gathers the remains of their snacks into a little pile while Steve tidies up the bar top.

“It would be nice, though, wouldn’t it?” Steve says. “If this were an actual date?”

“Not really,” Tony says. “’Cause then I’d _really_ have to follow you backstage.”

“Do you want to, though?”

“No, I’m not going backstage—”

“I meant date me.” Steve blinks, as though surprised by his own words, just before ice-sharp clarity settles over his features. He looks at Tony, the sudden focus of which makes the hair at the back of Tony’s neck rise up. “ _Would_ you like to date me, Tony? Valentine’s Day is coming up, and we spend so much time together nowadays, so it could be nice to… If we were. Like that. I think it’d be nifty.”

Tony takes a moment to snap the lapels of jacket into place before bringing his head up to look Steve dead straight in the eye. Steve has an expression of open curiosity and guilelessness, which Tony knows sometimes masks Steve’s true devious self, but today there’s no secret agenda at play, no secondary subtext to be wary of.

Tony knows the joke. Hell, he’s made a career of letting other people’s words slide off of him, a duck to water or oil to an Iron Man suit – he’s been a despoiler, a murderer, the Merchant of Death. Stick and stones and all that. So it’s even easier to not listen to _other_ kind of the talk, the type that comes from the other end of the spectrum, i.e. from friendship instead of hate, and is meant to be taken in the spirit of familiarity and affection, instead of literally.

The joke is that he and Steve go on dates, and have been going on dates for some time, maybe even before the Ultron fiasco. The jab is sweet in its own way, though it’d picked up momentum when Sam joined the Avengers and they’d stopped using euphemisms or meaningful facial expressions of raised eyebrows and squinty eyes. A two-person mission becomes a date; a two-person attendance to a ribbon-cutting ceremony for some new hospital becomes a date; a two-person evening out to an art gallery becomes a date.

Tony rolls with it. At first, he’d taken it from a place of comfort, enjoying that Natasha could joke about his and Steve’s “private bonding time” in the aftermath of his breakup with Pepper. After that, he’d taken it at full face value, gleeful at its ridiculousness and not wanting to analyze too deeply how on earth he’d gotten to a place where he can message Steve at pretty much any hour of the day about some new eatery he wants to check out and if Steve would like to come along, to which Steve would usually say yes.

But a joke is a joke, and these days Steve Rogers even knows what a joke is. So it’s with a measure of surprise that Tony now processes Steve’s words and tone and earnest set of his mouth, and cannot find the punchline he expects to be there. A serious question deserves a serious answer, so here it is.

“No,” Tony says.

Steve winces. “Ow.”

“I’m flattered,” Tony says quickly. “Really, I am.”

“Oh.” Steve perks a up a little, the tips of his ears going pink. “Really? Not joshing?”

“Not joshing,” Tony says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Because I’m totally the kind of person who likes hanging out with people I can’t stand? The hell, Steve.”

“Right, right.” Steve leads them back into the hall, carving their way through the throng so Tony won’t have to. Once in their seats, they settle down, waiting for the curtain to open. Steve leans over, shoulder poking Tony’s, and says: “Did you only say no because you don’t want to go backstage with me?”

“No,” Tony hisses.

 

+

 

Tony decides that Valentine’s Day is to blame. Steve had barely blinked all the other times Natasha monologued dramatically at them for not being invited on their outings, and it took something like four times for Sam to outright call them ‘dates’ for Steve to even take notice of the word at all. But now that it’s pre-Valentine’s season fun times with its subtle advertising everywhere (the theater had a Valentine’s Day matinee promo as well, with big curly letters proclaiming its romantic opportunities) so Steve’s got the bug in his head and Tony’s just a passenger along for the ride.

After the show, and their post-show meeting with the cast (Tony figured if he caved this once, he could make Steve cave on something else later on), Steve hasn’t let it go, and they return to the compound with the topic _still_ not tabled and Steve persistent in lobbing volley after volley at him.

“I just think it’d be nice!” Steve says to Tony’s back as he jogs up the stairs behind Tony into the common living area. “We could go somewhere nice—”

“We could go somewhere nice _anyway_ ,” Tony says.

“Sure, yes,” Steve says, “but this would make an occasion for it, and I know that you like me.”

“Debatable,” Tony declares.

“No, you like him, Tony,” Rhodey pipes from his spot at the dining table.

Steve thrusts two hands in the air towards Rhodey: _see._

Tony groans and tugs his collar loose. He hates it when Steve’s like this, eager and practically bouncing on his feet. Natasha’s not helping either – she’s also sitting at the dining table, and looking way too interested in the proceedings. “If you’re so goddamned itchy for it, ask Natasha,” Tony says.

“That’s my name,” Natasha says. “What’s up?”

“Steve asked me if I’d like to date him.” Tony makes a face at Rhodey, who’s ducked behind his newspaper and doing a poor job of masking his laugh as a cough.

“Aren’t you already dating?” Natasha says.

Steve swerves his hands round to gesture at Natasha: _see!_

“If spending time with someone means dating them, I’m dating Rhodey. And Vision. And Wanda, sometimes—” Tony darts his head around quickly, but neither Wanda nor Vision are in the immediate vicinity, “—which is too terrifying a concept to think about.”

“That’s a damned dirty lie,” Natasha says. “You’ve never been alone with Wanda.”

“Sure I have,” Tony says. “That time I came down early for breakfast and she was here by herself. Anyway, Steve?”

“Yes?” Steve says warily.

“You like spending time with Natasha,” Tony says. “So date her.”

“He doesn’t want to date me,” Natasha says.

“Yes.” Steve crosses his arms. “I’m asking you.”

“Oh?” Tony crosses his arms as well, though a half-second later he decides that this was the wrong move because when Steve does it his biceps go all huge and intimidating, which Tony cannot compete with in any way, shape or form. Worse yet, Steve’s shoulders and legs are set in the pose of a man on the verge of taking a diving leap, though in this case said diving leap is into madness that even Tony cannot condone. Tony says, “Does that mean I’m your favorite Avenger?”

“Uh…” Steve’s eyes flicker sideways, as though searching for the trick in the question. “Yes? Yes.”

“Your favorite person in the whole wide world?”

“Not that that would be necessary in order to date someone, but under the umbrella of people that I personally consider dating material, then yes, very much so.”

“Then you need to learn to be nicer to me because this?” Tony gestures from Steve to himself and back. “Is annoying as fuck and I don’t need more of that in my life.”

“Hey,” Steve says.

“Jesus,” Rhodey says. “Are you guys like this when you’re by yourselves?”

“Like what?” Tony says.

“What do you do when you’re hanging out together, just the two of you?” Natasha says.

“We bitch about our co-workers,” Tony says promptly.

“Only sometimes,” Steve says. “The rest of the time we bitch about each other.”

“That, too,” Tony says with a nod.

“I take it back, you shouldn’t date,” Rhodey says. “The world is not ready for it.”

“Thank you.” Tony winds his way around the table, where he drops a kiss on the top of Rhodey’s head before detouring to the fridge. “Look, Steve. If you want to do something on Valentine’s Day, we’ll do something on Valentine’s Day. But not in a dating capacity.”

Steve lets out a small sound, like the last whistle of air draining out from a balloon. Tony resolutely does not look over to match whatever’s happening on Steve’s face with the sound, for no good can come from that. Tony focuses instead on rummaging through the fridge, and standing back up when he can’t find what he’s looking for.  “Did someone take my blueberry cake?”

“Vision,” Natasha says.

Tony closes the fridge door. “He doesn’t need to eat. All of you need to stop blaming him when you steal my food.”

“Tony?” Steve says.

“What?” Tony sighs.

“Are you still my plus one for the school benefit?” Steve says.

“Of course I am, what do you take me for?” Tony closes his eyes and tries to remember what day it is. “That’s week after next, right?”

“Just a couple of days before Valentine’s,” Natasha says helpfully.

 

+

 

Okay, so maybe it’s also Tony’s fault. He’d rolled with it from the get go, and perhaps in doing so encouraged Steve into his current line of thinking. The best and most obvious course of action is to ride this phase out, all the way through the heat of Valentine’s over to the other side, where things will no doubt settle down and return to how they’ve always been. Steve would stop being weird about this and embrace the fact that there are far, _far_ weirder things to think about in their lives as superheroes.

But for now, Tony manages. After all, Steve has a great deal of other quirks in his person, and this is a relatively harmless one. If anything, this would lead to a hilarious anecdote sometime in the future, where they can look back and laugh about that time where Steve thought that they could actually _date_ date.

In the meantime, it’s business as usual for Tony.

It’s just over a week until Valentine’s, and he’s making a very tiresome pitstop at one of his unfavorite places in the world. The hospital is busy; far from the post-megalomaniac-attack-on-the-city kind of busy, but just busy enough that Tony passes through its hallways and elevators unremarked upon, until he reaches the waiting area that is his target.

Steve sits up at the sight of him, surprised.

“Your bag,” Tony says, handing the satchel over. “Tablet, sketchbook, snacks. That lemon water you like, but no coffee because I didn’t want to carry that all the way here.”

“I—thank you.” Steve puts the bag on his lap. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” Tony adjusts his sunglasses. “Say hi to Sam for me.”

“Hey, hey, no. Sit.” Steve shuffles over a little, though it’s not really necessary. “Don’t go.”

Tony gingerly sits down, accepting that there’s no comfortable position to be had in these plastic seats. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine. More embarrassed than anything else. They’re setting his arm, it should be done soon.”

Tony nods. “Good job on the bus rescue, both of you.”

Steve twitches a little, forever self-conscious whenever anyone brings up his actual acts of big heroism. You’d think that the guy was in the wrong business, but there it is. Steve clears his throat and busies himself opening the bag Tony brought for him. “When did you get back?”

“Eh.” Tony shrugs. “Meeting ended hours ago. I got you cheese.”

“You got _me_ cheese?”

“I got everyone cheese,” Tony says. “Supposed to be good cheese, or maybe they conned me, who knows?”

Steve peers into his bag. “The cheese in here?”

“No, it’s at the – it’s a wheel.” Tony opens his hands, estimating the size. “Like that.”

“Do we even have space for that in the kitchen?”

“Do we even – of course we have space. I make space. Eat your bagel.”

Steve pulls the packed bagels out of the bag. “They’re squished.”

“I can take them back, you ingrate.”

“Heh.” Steve takes the topmost bagel and tears it. He offers a piece to Tony, who shakes his head. They’re quiet for a while, Steve eating and Tony staring at nothing from behind the safety of his sunglasses. When Steve next speaks, there’s a carefulness in the delivery that has gooseflesh rising on Tony’s arm: “You like men, don’t you? I mean.” Steve coughs, as though to process the half-eaten bagel in his mouth. “You like women, but you also like men. I assumed, but I’ve never actually asked.”

“It’s a pity we’re mostly assholes,” Tony says. “But yes.”

“I’d known that was an option, even before…” Steve pauses, and Tony knows the pause means the big ice sleep that even now Steve doesn’t have a flippant, shortcut phrase for. “I don’t remember _how_ I knew, if there was something specific I saw or heard to that effect. What I do remember is that it didn’t cross my mind that it could – would – be applicable to me as well. Not until I’d been here a while, though I didn’t think about it too closely. Felt like I’d be making a statement, if I did.”

“Just ‘cause you’re Captain America? Oh please. The shield doesn’t own you.”

Steve ducks his head, his smile lopsided and pleased. “Anyway, it’s. It’s just human to want to look at what your eye finds pleasing, right? But that blurs, too, between aesthetic appreciation of something or someone, and wanting that same something or someone up close to you in a more, um, intimate way.”

“Sure.”

“Just like how _this_ blurs.” Steve inclines his head, his meaning shifted to refer to what’s been going on between them. “It took on a life of its own, didn’t it? How did it even—”

“I got locked in my new suit and called you for help,” Tony says.

“Right. Then you took me out for lunch as a thank you.” Steve’s smile is fond, even if confusion flickers over his face as he recalls the memory. “That was almost a date, too, wasn’t it?”

“It really wasn’t. We made it, what, ten minutes? Before it got awkward and you went back to the Tower.”

“But we’ve gotten better since then,” Steve says, matter-of-fact. “You have to admit that our outings are very date-like now.”

“They are.”

Steve doesn’t immediately reply, but Tony can feel him regrouping, steam gathering behind whatever it is he’s about to say next. Tony’s hackles start go up, but internally glares at himself – _stop that_. Tony doesn’t have to be here, and he didn’t have to stay, so he’s got to take the punches as they come because they’re no one’s fault but his.

“You agree,” Steve says carefully, “that the ways we’ve been spending time together, intention aside, are actually, functionally dates?”

“I never said I _didn’t_ agree that they were dates.”

“But how does…” Steve huffs and tries again. “You agree that they’re dates. But you don’t agree to _date_ me?”

“That is correct.”

“How does that make sense?”

“I am a man of contradictions.” Tony leans over, bumping Steve’s shoulder with his. “That’s what you like about me.”

“Sometimes.”

“All the time.” Tony straightens up when the door opposite them opens, letting out a nurse. In the room beyond there’s a glimpse of Sam, who’s approaching the door and chatting with someone. “Okay, so that’s my cue,” Tony says.

“C’mon, no—” Steve sighs when Tony stands up and steps away, all geared up to leave. When Steve gives in, it’s with a small smile that has Tony’s stomach flipflopping in the most unnecessary way. “Thank you, Tony,” Steve says, low and heartfelt. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“Yes, I am,” Tony says.

 

+

 

On Monday night, they go for the school benefit. Steve got invited months ago, because he’s a man who plays favorites with education-related causes, growing attached to a handful by some mysterious criterion that’s beyond Tony’s understanding. Steve asked Tony for advice back in the early days, on stuff like when best to make appearances or participate in PR exercises on the ground. Steve even followed said advice sometimes.

This benefit is another of Steve’s favorites. Not the hobnobbing part, but the getting the spotlight on causes he cares for part, with the occasional sport of rustling up suits who think Steve should act a certain way and don’t know what to do with themselves when he doesn’t.

Tony likes being here for that, too.

It’s a good night, much more low-key than Tony’s usual scene, and with the added bonus that aside from a few snap-happy fans, barely anyone cares that Tony’s there. The true star is Steve, who takes photos and shakes hands, but mainly and pointedly spends time with the handful of teachers and scholarship students who are present.

Tony keeps Steve company when he needs it, and stays out of the way when he doesn’t. Near the end of the night Steve’s visibly exhausted – also hilarious, considering the man’s workout regimen – so Tony graciously steers him out of the ballroom, away from the conversations and grabby hands.

Once they’re in the car and heading home, Tony sets the stereo volume down low. Steve’s reclining in his chair, his eyes closed and hands interlocked in his chest as he semi-dozes.

The compound’s almost in view when Steve finally stirs.

“You look really nice.” Steve’s voice is worn and husky, thanks to his yammering with strangers all night.

“We both look nice.” Tony’s still wearing his jacket, but Steve’s taken his off and tossed it in the back. Though Tony’s keeping his eyes on the road, he knows that Steve looks like an outtake from a perfume ad, sprawled careless and powerful in the luxury leather seat – would _you_ like to rub this all over your body? The intermittent streetlights that pass over them provide a tease at what’s actually on display.

Tony startles at the touch of Steve’s fingers on his scalp. The pressure is light at first, his fingertips brushing over the short, blunt hair near Tony’s ear, before moving upwards to comb through the longer strands. Tony suppresses a grin, opting not ask if this is how Steve hits on all the guys. Instead he says: “I like this haircut, too.”

“You find me attractive, right?” Steve says.

“Sometimes I cry myself to sleep thinking of the way your thighs flex when you run.”

Steve laughs, sounding slightly drunk. “I think you’re attractive, too.”

“Because you have functioning eyes.”

“No, I mean—”

“And here we are.” Tony brings the car to a halt – any spot can be a parking spot if you believe hard enough – and steps out. He grabs Steve’s jacket from the back and, as soon as Steve’s also extricated himself from the car, tosses it at him. “C’mon, beddie-bye time.”

“Tony, you’re not listening,” Steve says.

“Sure I am.” Tony marches into the compound, hands in his pockets and not waiting for Steve to catch up. Steve catches up anyway, bumping Tony’s arm as he pretends he’s not as wide as a truck and that the staircase can fit the two of them walking up side by side.

“Because I was thinking,” Steve says. “I was thinking that maybe you’re not interested in me because you believe there’s the matter of, uh. Physical. Compatibility?”

Tony barks a laugh, and slips away from Steve’s side as soon as they’re on the common floor. The only light still on is at the living area balcony; other than that it’s dark and has the impression of being wholly abandoned.

“Look at you.” Tony shucks off his jacket and tosses it over the back of the couch. “You can’t even say it.”

Steve scowls. “Sex.”

Tony laughs again. “Oh my god. Your face. You’re red.”

“Sex,” Steve says stubbornly, punctuating the word through gritted teeth. “I’m talking about sex. Sexual chemistry.”

“Don’t give yourself a stroke there, Cap,” Tony says, keeping his hands busy by flicking the buttons of his cuffs open. “You still get uncomfortable when films have sex scenes.”

“Sometimes the actors look uncomfortable!” Steve takes a deep breath and moderates his volume. “You must admit that there’s potential here, right? I mean – you’re gorgeous.”

“Pshaw,” Tony says.

“You _are_ ,” Steve insists. “Everything about you – your eyes, your smile – even the way you walk is like – _God_ – it’s like poetry. I could look at you all day, Tony. And that’s just lookin’.”

“Good thing that’s free.” Tony’s smile loses some of its flippancy when Steve steps forward and puts his hands on Tony’s shoulders. There’s some wildness flickering in Steve’s eyes, visible even in the dim light, and Tony feels a responding panic rise in himself. But Tony shoves that feeling down, pulling forward the certainty that this is as far as it goes. The idea in theory will stay in theory, and everything will shortly go back to normal.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Steve announces.

Tony grins. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony keeps his eyes open. He will not and does not blink, not even when Steve leans in, his eyes just as open.

Steve’s mouth is warm, but flat and dry. It’s like kissing a book.

“Okay then,” Tony says politely.

“No, no, wait.” Steve takes a deep breath, determination hardening his face. “Wait.”

Steve brings his hands up from Tony’s shoulders. His palms frame Tony’s face, the thumbs settling on Tony’s eyebrows in a feather-light touch before moving down, gently guiding his eyelids shut.

In the dark, Tony can only follow Steve’s movements by touch and sound. Steve’s hands are still on his face, tracing the features of his eyes and cheeks, though they seem to linger just as much for Steve’s benefit as they do for Tony’s.

It’s probably curiosity that stills Tony where he stands. Curiosity, and the vague thrumming in his body that picks up a notch when he feels Steve’s breath ghosting over his lips. For a half-second Tony considers putting Steve out of his misery, but then Steve moves, lips settling at the corner of Tony’s mouth, just next to the juncture where moustache leads into beard. Steve seems to be testing the feel of it – or his own reaction to it – before drawing his mouth over the shape of the goatee.

A sweet, curling ache settles low in Tony’s stomach. Steve’s breath comes in short puffs against Tony’s skin, a betrayal of Steve’s impatience held a bay, which is all sorts of sexy. Yet Steve keeps moving slowly, nudging Tony’s nose with his own, and pressing teasing kisses around the shape of Tony’s mouth.

This means that when Steve finally kisses him properly, Tony’s lips are already parted and waiting. Steve swoops in, making himself at home, drawing Tony into the heat of him. Tony feels himself shudder, his hands finding purchase on Steve’s waist to hold on as he’s kissed with single-minded purpose.

It feels good. Of course it feels good, because of course Steve would do his best to make it feel good. Steve makes a faint, surprised sound against Tony’s mouth – because Tony’s kissing back, he hadn’t even realized he was kissing back until he was already doing it. It’s soft and lazy and hot, and just on the edge of sloppy.

Tony’s shirt feels too tight, and Steve’s shirt is in the way. Tony’s whole body tips forward, trying to fit itself to Steve’s. His fingers claw their way upwards, chasing the strong shape of the muscles of Steve’s sides. Steve’s hands return the favor, moving over Tony’s arms and down to his waist, where he pauses for a long, heated second before venturing down to Tony’s ass.

Tony jerks back, their lips smacking loudly at the sudden separation.

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve says quickly, his hands raised. “I know, that was too—”

“It’s fine, it’s not that.” Tony starts to move his hand to his mouth, wanting to wipe the heat away, but forcibly detours to scratch the back of his head. “This is, uh. Sorry, but.”

“But?” Steve’s face falls, the dismay there raw and awful.

“Hey, hey, no, none of that.” Tony rushes back in, cupping Steve’s face carefully. “You’re amazing. You’re wonderful. This was a nice surprise, but it’s not. Come on.”

“A _surprise_?” Steve echoes. “How can it be…”

“It’s been a really long day,” Tony continues quickly, “we’re both tired and kinda tipsy—”

“I can’t get drunk, and you drove us back.”

“Okay, then just tired. We’re both tired.” Tony takes Steve’s hands in his, squeezing gently. Steve looks pole-axed, and Tony’s a fucking heel who needs to fix this. “Let’s put a bookmark on this, all right? Fresh minds. God, Steve, you’re so important to me. You know that, right? _Right_?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly.

“You sure?” Tony presses.

“Yes, I know,” Steve says, sounding a little more like himself. “It’s just… okay. Tomorrow.”

“Good.” Tony pats Steve on the chest, two solid taps to prove that Tony’s still here, still wanting to be as close to Steve as he’ll have him, whatever happens. Steve’s eyes are still… not so good, but his mouth quirks a little, the almost smile there probably the most success that Tony can get tonight. “I’m going to turn in now, all right?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.”

“Okay.” Tony draws away, maintaining reassuring eye contact for as long as possible. Steve turns away first, moving to sit on the couch, and Tony returns to his room cursing himself every step of the way.

 

+

 

The kitchen is quiet, the next morning. Tony saw Natasha head off just as he was coming down, but for about two-thirds of Tony’s morning he’s alone and lets FRIDAY play his music for as loud as is necessary to keep his nerves in check.

Steve, when he finally does show up, is freshly-showered and sparkling. He must’ve gone for his regular run, because he’s brought the paper with him. He places it on the table in front of Tony.

“We’re on page six,” Steve says. “Well, I’m on page six, but you’re mentioned in the article, too.”

“What times we live in,” Tony says, grinning.

Steve putters about to get breakfast, and the small talk that settles around them is light, familiar. Tony feels himself relaxing even as he recognizes that this is exactly Steve’s intention. There is comfort in this predictable part of Steve, how he (occasionally) takes his time to work on a problem, laying the preliminaries before coming in for the kill.

“You need a refill?” Steve calls out from the counter.

Tony peers at his mug. “Nah, I’m good. Oh shit, I got some things I need to put the week’s grocery list. Do you have the—” A notepad appears in Tony’s face, courtesy of Steve, and Tony accepts it graciously.

They work on it for a while, a functional team being functional and useful. Then Vision and Wanda show up, mostly marked by Wanda’s footsteps (Vision makes the effort sometimes, but he still forgets) and they rustle around the counter somewhere in the background.

“Well, hey now,” Steve says suddenly.

Tony looks up and blinks in surprise. Whatever Vision and Wanda do in their free time is their business, but the only reason Tony can think of for the intense make out session they’re having right now _right there_ – Wanda’s arms around Vision’s shoulders and all – is that one of them wants to make the coffee machine jealous.

“Is it Valentine’s already?” Tony glances at his watch. “No…?”

“Oh,” Vision says as he comes up for air he doesn’t need, “I thought that enthusiastic kissing in the common areas was accepted social protocol now.”

It takes a second for that to sink in – a second longer for Tony compared to Steve, who immediately says, “If you were here when we got back last night, you could’ve just let us know.”

“Sorry,” Wanda says, sheepish. “It was his idea.”

“He gets that from Bruce,” Tony says sagely.

“That is possible,” Vision says, his expression betraying nothing but mild amusement.

Wanda grabs her flask of coffee and pushes her hair behind her ear – a nervous gesture, which is surprising. “I hope it works out for you two,” she says.

“No, you don’t,” Tony says.

Wanda narrows her eyes. “Don’t tell me what I do and do not feel.”

The pair of them disappear down the corridor, talking softly and Vision’s cape flapping out behind them. Tony watches them, bemused, until they’re out of view. Then he turns to Steve, ready to talk shit about those two, but the words die when he sees Steve’s staring at him openly and with solemn resolve.

“I know what I did wrong,” Steve says.

“Geez, no, Steve,” Tony says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was careless.” Steve averts his gaze for a second, as if embarrassed. “When I first asked you, I made it sound as if I was just asking for the heck of it. That it didn’t matter one way or another, or I wasn’t taking it seriously. And at first – yes, I admit, I wasn’t really thinking. The idea just got in my head and it felt good, it felt _right_ , but I hadn’t thought through what it would mean for you, for us, for the team. But I have, Tony. I’ve thought about it.”

“That’s great,” Tony says weakly.

“And I’m not only asking because it just so happens to be _you_ that I’m spending all my time with.” Steve scoots closer in his chair, all the better to pin Tony in place with his killer blue eyes. “It’s not because you’re convenient. It’s because you’re pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Oh my god,” Tony says, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Steve, you have to stop. The last thing I want is to hurt you.”

“Is there someone else?” Steve says this steadily, but his eyes – God, his eyes. “It’s okay, I’d understand.”

“Hah, someone else.” Tony chortles. “Of course not. Poor chump would have to deal with you for competition.”

“There it is,” Steve says quietly. “More of your mixed signals.”

“It’s not…” Tony stops, puts his hands flat on the table, and takes a deep breath. He knew this was coming, and he thought he was prepared, but isn’t that just like Steve to toss all his plans into the wind? What a guy. “I’ve let this go on too long. That’s on me, I guess.”

“I don’t need kissing, or sex,” Steve says. “Nothing would actually have to change, in what we do together. You’ve said that we pretty much go on dates already.”

“If nothing has to change, why are you _asking_ for change? What does the label matter?”

“Because I want to be yours.”

Tony’s breath catches. This is the sweetest, loveliest attack he’s ever had the pleasure of enduring. Steve’s hunkering down in his chair, hands clasped in his lap, his emotional belly bared and on display, and for what? For _Tony_? It’s ludicrous. Nonsensical.

He needs to focus. Regroup, and focus. Tony steels himself, and tries to look at the corner of Steve’s eyes instead of his eyes directly.

“I’ve still got the Valentine’s plans,” Tony says. “I was thinking dinner, and then a movie. Your pick, or my pick, that doesn’t really—” He stops when Steve takes his hand, enfolding it in the warmth of Steve’s ginormous palms.

“Are you worried about the team?” Steve asks. “Or is it… is it because you don’t want to date anymore, after what happened with—”

“Don’t be gross,” Tony says. “I don’t need to explain myself.”

Steve’s head snaps back. “Right. That’s fair.”

“It is.” Tony conjures up a smile, and tries not to take heart that Steve doesn’t respond in kind. “I want us to be okay. Will we be okay, Steve?”

Steve wants to keep going. Tony can see it clear as day, just as can see Steve’s fear that if he keeps going, he’ll hit a hard limit and fuck things up beyond repair. Tony waits, patient and hopeful, until Steve slowly nods.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

“Will _you_ be okay?”

Steve lifts his hand, settling it gently on Tony’s chin, thumb stroking his bottom lip. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Tony pulls away, and does his best not to notice how Steve deflates. “Where’s that grocery list?”

 

+

 

Tony spends most of the day out of the compound, dealing with SI business and later making a minor detour Midwest to deal with a power plant problem. When he gets home, there’s dinner with the rest of the team, including Maria who’s made a stopover for some reason. It’s good, great, normal. Steve seems back to his usual self, and has no problem with sitting next to Tony and ribbing him like they always do.

The next day is tinkering day. Tony heads down to the workshop as soon as he’s primed, and sends a notice out to the team to bug him if there’s any Iron Man-necessary emergencies.

It’s there, while Tony’s arms deep inside the frame of a sub-orbital suit variant, that Steve corners him.

Admittedly, cornering Tony isn’t much of a challenge, because Steve knows all of his hiding spots in the compound and much of the greater New York area. Regardless, Steve does corner Tony in his workshop, marching right on into the place as if he’s invited (which he is, but still) and taking the stool closest to the bench Tony’s currently working at.

“Here’s the thing,” is Steve’s opening.

Tony pushes his goggles up to his forehead with a glove-covered thumb. “Uh-oh, here it comes.”

“It’s true that you don’t owe me a reason,” Steve says. “But you haven’t mentioned a single one. At all. Not even like, a careless toss out there. That’s a curious blank spot, isn’t it? Almost as if it’s a deliberate choice.”

“What do you think of this?” Tony turns the frame of what he expects will become a new boot. “I’m adding retro-rockets further up, closer to the knee.”

“And that got me thinking, why would Tony do that? Why wouldn’t he shut me down efficiently, immediately? He knows he could’ve just said that he’s not interested, that he doesn’t think of me that way, and I would’ve accepted that, no question, the end. And then I realized – it’s because of what we do.”

“We harass each other while we’re working?”

“We argue. About anything. Everything. Each other.” Steve’s leaning in, eyes like tractor beams, locking Tony’s limbs where he sits. “You throw a reason at me, I hit back. We’re experts at that now. Olympic athletes.”

“Always been my goal in life.”

“Which _means_ ,” Steve says, dropping his voice to a low, low timbre that has Tony’s toes curling in his sneakers, “that you saw that coming. You knew that if you gave me a reason, _any_ reason, it would be open season on dismantling said reasons, and knew that the best way to avoid that would be to not play at all.”

“Futurist.” Tony jerks upright. “Um.”

“Hah!” Steve slams his hand on the bench. It would’ve been a nice distraction if the boot frame fell over, but it doesn’t. “So I was right. You didn’t say anything because you knew how I would react.”

“Steve,” Tony says, throat tightening, “this isn’t—”

“And you were like that from the _very start_ , from the very first time I asked you, all those weeks ago, which means you’ve thought about it, about us, about the _possibility_ of us, long before it ever even occurred to me. But if you’d already run the scenarios in your head, why didn’t you—”

“You want a fucking reason, Steve?” Tony snaps. “Here’s a fucking reason. If it goes bad – which is very likely, all things considered – it’s not just us that’d have to take the fall. It’s the team, it’s Earth’s defenses, it’s everything we’ve worked for. You gonna take that risk?”

“That could happen even if we weren’t together,” Steve says calmly. “Friends, teams can have volatile break-ups, too.”

“I think it’d be a significantly more volatile break-up if I’m in love with you at the time.”

“Don’t know, seems like you’re halfway in love with me already.”

Tony inhales sharply. He reaches up and yanks his goggles back into place. “Get out.”

Steve’s face is slack with shock. “Tony—”

“I said get out. FRIDAY!” Tony jumps to his feet and kicks the pilot-scale rocket engine two benches over to life. The roar drowns out whatever Steve could say, but just for extra coverage FRIDAY pushes the workshop’s music volume way, way up.

Tony doesn’t watch Steve leave, or hear him do so. But he must have, somewhere between Tony’s getting to his feet and stomping over to the other side of the workshop, because by the time Tony feels he’s no longer in danger of vibrating out of his skin at the sight of Steve’s face and dares look back, there’s no sign of him.

“FRIDAY, bring it down,” Tony says. “He upstairs?”

“ _Yes, boss_.”

“That’s good.” Tony sinks onto the closest available surface, only then realizing how his knees are wobbly, his hands shaking. “Fuck.”

The trick is this: if he treats everything as no big deal, then other people can never tell when something really matters. Keep it light, keep it easy; especially in the case of Steve, for whom Tony still has no idea what he’d done for things to get this good between them. One false step would ruin everything, especially if said false step is Tony’s propensity to go from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye – falling hard and fast and dizzy – without the other person ever asking for it.

It would’ve worked with Steve, who’d rolled with all of it as easily as Tony did. Steve was careless in a kind, non-judgmental way, and accepted Tony’s idiosyncrasies in a fair trade off with his own. Anyone could say anything about it – they’re ‘together’, they’re ‘dating’, they’re the team ‘Mom and Dad’ – and it was okay, because everyone also knew what was _really_ going on, and all of those comments came from a place of comfortable, confident affection.

Tony wasn’t going to ruin that. He’d decided ages ago that he wouldn’t ruin that, not on his watch, not after everything.

He almost had it, too. Steve hadn’t _really_ thought of Tony as an actual honest-to-goodness viable dance partner. It was just fun and games, right up until it wasn’t. Tony slipped up somewhere, pulled instead of pushed, or maybe gave too much where he should’ve been sharper, dismissive.

Tony’s chest hurts. A heart attack might even be preferable, since he can’t blame the arc reactor anymore. He leans forward and, head in hands, tries to steady his breathing.

“Damn it, Steve,” Tony says.

 

+

 

Tony will not be a prisoner in his own home. Not for this, anyway. He stays in the workshop for a not-unusual number of hours, has the appropriate meals (including dinner with Rhodey) and sits out his panic-anger like an adult instead of, say, taking one of the suits out for a fly-by and kicking whatever convenient ass he finds in the way.

The key here is prioritization. Also, acceptance on Tony’s part that he made a mistake and now needs to fix it, because fixing things is his job.

Tony sleeps on it. When he wakes up the next morning, FRIDAY cheerfully tells him it’s Valentine’s Day, which is just peachy. He spends some time in the gym, and the workshop, and with Vision in the compound mainframe, and is only mildly surprised when he doesn’t see Steve at all, anywhere.

In the late afternoon, Tony goes down to the garage. Steve’s motorbike is there, so it’s possible that he’s still the compound, and just keeping out of Tony’s way.

When Tony does find Steve, he’s in the living room. Tony could’ve sworn that the place has been empty and unused the whole day, but when he walks up to the back of the couch, he sees the faint outline of someone’s foot over the hand rest.

Sure enough, there’s Steve lying along the couch, a book open in his hands. He double-takes when he sees Tony standing over him, and scrambles up into a sitting position. “Hey,” Steve says.

“You want to cancel the reservations or what?” Tony asks.

Steve starts in surprise, but recovers quickly. “No. Let me get changed.”

“No one cares what you’re wearing.”

“I care. Give me five minutes.” Steve gets up and takes off at a dead run for his room. Despite everything, despite the danger inherent in what’s been going on, Tony smiles.

Steve comes back in one of his dress shirts – the dark blue one that brings out his eyes. No tie, but he’d fixed his hair some, not that that’s necessary for him to look deadly gorgeous. He smiles as he approaches Tony – a careful smile, welcoming instead of hopeful.

They go for dinner. Tony’s initial idea was to book a whole floor so they wouldn’t have to see other couples being couply around them, but Steve always makes a Face when he does that, so he didn’t, and conceded to the lesser option of a private room. A square table, but with them sitting at an angle to each other instead of opposite, just because.

It’s a little quieter than they usually are around each other, but it’s not strained. Tony knows strained; the early days between them are not that long ago, after all. This is subdued, comfortable, the edges worn down between them.

“Did you finish your boots?” Steve asks.

“Still working on them,” Tony says. “The rockets are fine, but it’s the life-support that’s throwing me off. Can’t reach sub-orbital without shaving down on space. What about you?”

“Nothing much. Got some reading done. Helped Wanda pick a present for Vision.”

“Ha!”

Dinner is nice, though it would’ve been nicer if Tony could just relax. He realizes that he’s waiting for Steve to bring it up, because that’s what he’s been doing for weeks now, bringing the conversation swinging back round to the idea of _them_ , sometimes when Tony wasn’t expecting it. Tony expects it to be worse now, too, with Steve knowing what he knows.

But it doesn’t happen.

It doesn’t happen over the five courses. It doesn’t happen when their waiter wishes them a happy Valentine’s. It doesn’t even happen when Natasha calls Steve, checking in with them because she’s heading out for a solo investigation on the Shadrach case.

As far as Steve seems to be concerned, it’s just another one of their outings. But this is what Steve does, too, isn’t it? He could do this all day, whereby ‘ _this’_ is sometimes taking bone-rattling hits, and other times it’s waiting out someone else’s neuroses without comment.

Maybe there’s nothing that needs fixing, because Steve’s already gone ahead and fixed it.

After dessert, Tony takes them to the Tower. It’s still being refurbished, but Tony’s modified one of the floors into a makeshift movie theater for the night. There’s a projector, a huge screen across one wall, and a pair of overstuffed reclining faux-leather chairs set in front of said screen.

Steve laughs when he sees it.

There’s popcorn, snacks and drinks courtesy of catering (and Happy), so they help themselves and settle in. Tony’s got a selection ready; Steve picks _The Fugitive_ , and they’re off.

Though they chat during movie itself, the conversation’s light and inconsequential. Critique of Harrison Ford’s hair kind of inconsequential.

The chairs they’re in are actually a single unit, the two seats set inside a single frame. A couple’s chair set, which hadn’t meant anything back when Tony asked FRIDAY to order it off the internet. There’s a single arm’s rest between them, and a mini-table set in the front to put shared snacks.

Tony set his chair to recline immediately when they’d sat down, whereas Steve reclined his at a shallower angle, preferring to be more upright. This has the unintended side effect that Tony, half-lying down, can turn his head and watch the side of Steve’s face as it goes through the motions of interest and skepticism.

Though it’s not just that. Tony can read off of Steve – _has_ read off of Steve, through the evening and into the night – a sense of contentment. Despite the recent tension between them, Steve had not once looked like he wanted to be anywhere else tonight.

Tony’s brain is working two – ten – steps ahead, and thinks that he could close this chapter right here, all nice and neat. Steve won’t push anymore, won’t even bring it up ever again if Tony never does. He won’t make it awkward either, or exude guilt-tripping hopefulness in Tony’s direction. He’s content with what they are; he’d said exactly that just two days ago and, really, the only thing that had kept him going at it was because he didn’t know the _why._ He knows now. It’s done, it’s closed.

This is enough. It’s enough for Steve now, just as it’d been enough for Tony before.

Steve, still watching the movie, wrinkles his nose at something that’s happening on the screen.

Tony remembers being happy, before Afghanistan. More specifically, he remembers what happiness felt like for the man he used to be – its flavors and textures and what it took to send said happiness bursting across his synapses. Tony generally doesn’t like looking back to those old days – no point, et cetera – but every so often he’s surprised by the person he’s become, who finds joy and satisfaction in the things he now does, and how he _feels_ that joy and satisfaction in some new, unquantifiably brighter and beautiful way.

He’s having a moment like that now, as he looks at Steve Rogers.

“You’d break my heart,” Tony says quietly.

The movie’s still playing. There’s dramatic music, shouting, and the roar of water. On the other hand, Steve has super serum-enhanced hearing.

“No, I won’t,” Steve says.

“You can promise that? You can _swear_ to that?”

Steve takes a second to respond, bypassing the sentiment of the question to what Tony’s really asking. “If you want to be precise,” he says, “no one can really swear to anything, because the universe is kinda nuts. Breaks plans on the regular. All we can do is try our best.”

“How can you say that?” Tony asks. “You’ve lost so much already, but you’re game for losing more?”

“I’m just that stubborn, I guess,” Steve says, which is hilariously, excruciatingly simplistic. “But you – you’re giving up before even starting? _You_?”

It’s different, Tony wants to say. It’s fine to put everything on the line for the sake the world. When it’s something just for himself (a _big_ something), that sounds too old-school Tony Stark and is better avoided altogether.

But Tony can’t say that out loud, because Steve would make another Face, the kind that always precedes Tony’s least favorite types of arguments between them.

Tony’s heartbeat has picked up some. He should say something, ride the momentum of the moment, and wipe that annoyingly relaxed look off Steve’s face.

He sits up. His shoes are already off – he’d toed them away when he first sat down – so he hauls himself up onto his knees easily, then over the hand rest, and onto Steve’s chair.

Steve’s eyes go comically wide as he registers Tony’s climbing up, and they’re wider still when Tony comes to a rest on Steve’s lap, legs folded on either side of Steve’s thighs. Steve’s hands immediately come up to settle on Tony’s waist, a perfect frame for Tony to stay balanced and comfortable.

“Hi?” Steve says.

Tony kisses him. No preamble, no teasing. Tony just brings his lips down against Steve’s, and swallows Steve’s startled, “ _Oh_ ” in a measured demonstration of what he can do with his mouth.

Sure, Tony’s wanted this. Thought about it, and packed those thoughts in a little box that he only brought out under very controlled conditions. It was fine to let Steve kiss him the other day because the rules then were different. Now when Tony kisses him, urging his mouth open and licking deep, it is to indulge himself. It is to take all the details of this – Steve’s hot mouth, his skin, the little rumble at the back of his throat he doesn’t have control over – and hoard them.

Steve feels amazing. _Kissing_ Steve feels amazing, a full-body zing that doesn’t let up as Steve kisses back. Steve’s a little clumsy, but he’s persistent and full of fervor as he moves his lips against Tony’s, trying to keep up, gasping every so often as their mouths glide and move and find each other again.

Steve hadn’t even wanted this up until a few weeks ago.

Panic flares in Tony’s chest. He pulls back sharply, though he doesn’t get very far with Steve holding onto his arms.

“Stay, stay,” Steve says, breathless and urgent. “Tony. Stay here with me.”

“I—” Tony laughs, though he’s betrayed by the tremor in that, too. “Wow, bad idea.”

“No, the opposite.” Steve hooks his arms around Tony’s back, the strong muscles keeping him grounded. Tony can’t seem to get his eyes to focus, which is all the pity because Steve seems to moving his head in a bobbing motion trying to catch Tony’s gaze. Tony imagines that Steve’s eyes must be doing that thing where they go worried and intense and kind, so it’s probably for the best that Tony can’t see it.

Escape seems futile. Tony lets his head drop to Steve’s shoulder, while his body flops weak and shaken in the circle of Steve’s arms.

“It’s okay,” Steve says.

Tony breathes wetly against Steve’s collar, open-mouthed and very unsuave. Steve’s petting him, one hand rising and falling along the line of Tony’s spine, which Tony really doesn’t want to be as soothing as it is. It feels safer to stay on edge and twitchy, and use that as armor.

Tony tries to recall exactly when he fell for Steve. He’s tried to narrow it down before, but didn’t get very far because brains are weird and feelings are even weirder, refusing to be pinned down with any sort of neatness.

“Second chances,” Tony says. When Steve makes a questioning sound, Tony adds, “I shouldn’t get so many second chances. It’s not – it’s probability, okay? Laws of probability. It’s not right.”

“Like I said, the universe is weird like that.” Steve pushes his fingers into Tony’s hair and – _Jesus_ – it feels good. Steve’s shoulder is really nice, too. Firm, solid, smells good. “I’m sorry you felt—”

“Shut up about being sorry,” Tony says. “Not interested.”

“Okay.”

It figures that the worst thing Tony could think of would be Steve wanting him back. It felt neater, in some overarching cosmic way, when Steve didn’t. Tony’s used to such things being just _that_ much out of reach, just _that_ much more the purview of others more worthy that he is.

“Ask me again,” Tony says.

There’s a pause. Tony doesn’t look up, but he imagines Steve thinking, wetting his lips, wanting to do this correctly.

“Hey, Tony,” Steve says. “I was just thinking. Would you like to date me?”

“Yes. So much it scares me.”

Steve settles his hand on the base of Tony’s head, holding him close. Tony can feel the muscles of Steve’s chest tighten underneath him. “You’re scared?” Steve asks.

“Fucking terrified.”

“But that’s what you do, isn’t it?” Steve says. “You take your fear, along with your scraps and your ideas and your bad experiences – and you use all of it to make beautiful things. Impossible things.”

“That’s… what?”

“I’m just saying – that’s your shtick. Well, _that_ , and being all wiggly when expressing how you really feel about people.”

Tony pulls back to stare at Steve incredulously. Steve has smoothed his face out into a smile that’s so earnest that it tips over into smarm. Right here is one of the many reasons Tony loves this asshole, he of noble golden heart who manages to tap dance across that fine line between sincere and sarcastic.

“You need to stop being an optimistic dick,” Tony says.

“But that’s _my_ shtick,” Steve says.

“Goddammit, Rogers!” Tony exclaims. “Stop being amazing! How am I supposed to hold on to my perfectly sensible, perfectly reasonable resolution to admire you from afar?”

“Don’t.” Steve adjusts his hold on Tony’s back, the small bounce necessitating Tony’s putting his hands on Steve’s shoulders to keep his balance. “Your mistake was in assuming that you had to do this alone. Because you don’t.”

“We’ll face this together?” Tony says wryly.

“Hey, that’s my line.”

Tony can feel his resolve weakening, crumbling away as has so many other boundaries that he’s pretty sure Steve hadn’t realized he’d been chipping away at. That makes it worse even as it makes it better, and Tony? He’s done. He’s finished. He’d failed the moment he decided not to pack everything up and bail from the Avengers the moment he saw the possibility of this.

“Damn it.” Tony draws back, though there must be something in his face that has Steve unlocking his arms this time, letting Tony rise up on to his knees. Tony unfolds and refolds his legs, both of which are now on one side of Steve’s body, and is thus significantly more comfortable when Tony lowers himself back down to sit.

Steve’s trying very hard not to look like his birthday just came early, and helpfully adjusts his position to let Tony settle against him. Their bodies slot nice and tidy, Steve’s arm around Tony’s back, and Tony’s head back on Steve’s shoulder.

“You can, um.” Steve clears his throat. “Can you see the screen like that?”

“I know what happens,” Tony says. “I’ve seen it.”

“All right, if you’ve _seen_ it.”

Tony tries to relax. He knows it’s too much to hope for immediately, what with the spirit still having to battle itself into being willing. Steve, for his part, is silent for a few seconds as he contemplates the latest turn of events, and then presses a firm, lingering kiss to Tony’s temple.

“Technically, this is my date,” Tony says. “So you gotta plan the next one.”

“Technically,” Steve says, “we’ve never been on a full-on, hundred percent, no joke whatsoever, date.”

“Yeah, that’s fair. You’re still in charge of the next one.”

“The _first_ one.”

“Okay, the first one.” Tony’s pressed right up against Steve’s chest as it shifts, expanding and relaxing as Steve sighs.

“Were you really never going to tell me?” Steve says.

Tony huffs. “Feeling kinda fragile right now.”

“Because a lot of this could’ve just—”

“Come on!” Tony laughs, leaning away from Steve’s shoulder. He almost loses his balance, but retains some dignity by digging his fingers into Steve’s lovely shirt with its lovely buttons, which immediately has a subsection of Tony’s brain contemplating how much force is necessary to break said buttons with his teeth.

There’s nothing actually funny happening right now, but the laughter rattles something loose in Tony’s chest. When he trails off, he realizes that Steve’s grinning, and _he’s_ grinning, and he feels no particular urge to stop. He exhales, just as his body finally goes slack. It’ll be fine. Even if it’s not fine, they’ll make it fine, because that’s what they do, and Steve’s in this with him.

“There you are,” Steve says, soft and pleased. He lifts a hand, booping Tony’s cheek gently with a knuckle.

Tony lets go. He leans in, starting a little when Steve moves as well, meeting him halfway for the kiss.

It’s a slow kiss, closed-mouth, almost introductory in its politeness. It takes Tony’s breath away.

“Happy Valentine’s, Tony,” Steve says, breath warm on Tony’s lips. 

Okay, maybe Tony can agree on that now. “Back atcha.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post!](http://no-gorms.tumblr.com/post/181824790061/loves-such-an-old-fashioned-word-11167-words)


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